


Love me yesterday. Forget me today

by victor_fucking_hugo



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Car Accidents, Enjolras doesn't remember Grantaire, Enjolras doesn't remember the last two and half years of his life, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Yikes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victor_fucking_hugo/pseuds/victor_fucking_hugo
Summary: The first ‘flashback’, as Enjolras’ now calls them, comes three and half weeks after he is discharged from the hospital.He finds himself at the head of a table, his friends all gathered around snickering and poking at each other. He’s at the Musain. His vision is focused on a certain individual though, all of his friends seem to blur together. He still is able to recognize Courfeyrac’s polka dot shirt and Bossuet’s ‘not-so-lucky- shot glass sitting at the very edge of the table just waiting to fall, but everything just seems to melt into nothing but background noise. Instead, he has focused on someone with curls darker and more wild than Courfeyrac’s that have been hastily shoved up into a navy blue beanie. His eyes remind Enjolras of the sea on a stormy day, dark and mysterious and piercing. The stranger, Enjolras is sure he doesn’t recognize the man whatsoever, has his brown boots up on the table in a degrading manner, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side as he looks Enjolras over, seemingly unimpressed. A smirk, small and completely noticeable, is prominent on his features as he mutters from the other end of the table,“What’s the matter, chief? Can’t take the heat?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright bunnies. You're gonna hate me but... yeah. I wrote this a long time ago and want to see if I should keep at it. Lemme know what you guys think :) I'm planning on not making this too horribly long, but then again this is already over 10k and not even close to being done so.... we'll see. Lemme know what you think in the comments :)

Enjolras hefts his bag down onto the ground, not too terribly concerned with the surprisingly small amount of stuff it held. His eyes scanned over the new apartment complex wearily, taking in the spacious area and silently hoping for flicker or  _ something.  _ A slight hint of recognition to suddenly appear and make him not feel like he’s walking into a stranger’s home.

 

He silently takes in the tattered blue couch in the center of the living room that he could’ve sworn was nearly brand new and a lighter shade than it is now just a week ago when he had come over to borrow some flour and sugar. The living room is connected to an even smaller kitchen area that is almost barren, minus the large coffee maker and rusted fridge that seems to be making strange, hushed noises. There are pictures littering the bright purple walls--some he remembers, others he feels like he is looking at drawings of his friends, made up sketches in order to trick him into believing something that never happened.

 

But it did. He was there for it. That he knows for sure.

 

He walks over, unaware that Courfeyrac is still talking to him, to inspect a picture more closely. 

 

Courfeyrac notices a beat later and comes to join Enjolras at his side, “Oh yeah, I guess you don’t remember that. Huh?”

 

Enjolras shakes his head, his eyes not leaving the picture. Combeferre, him, and Courfeyrac are the only ones he recognizes in the picture. They are all each dressed in a flurry of colors with the sun beating down on them and grins too wide to be real on all their faces. Their arms are casually slung around each other’s shoulders and the flurry of people walking and dancing behind them is hard not to notice. Courfeyrac, although probably not intentionally, definitely has the biggest smile on his face and is where he belongs in their trio--the center. He has confetti layering his massive brown curls and is shamelessly shirtless with a feathered rainbow bra tied hastily across his chest. Combeferre, while still wearing the same thick-rimmed glasses Enjolras remembers him having, has splashes of colors on his face like he is ready for battle and is raising a pride flag high above his head. Enjolras, himself, on the other hand, has rainbow wings pulled onto his back that can easily be seen over the top of his blonde curls. Except in the picture his hair is no longer blonde. While it is the respectable length that he remembers--not the long straggly hair he woke up with around a week ago--it is decked out in various colors that swoop brilliantly across his ringlets and shroud around his face. 

 

They look happy. Content in each other’s presence and Enjolras can’t help but smile sadly.

 

“No, I don’t.” He admits.

 

Courfeyrac crosses his arms and shrugs, “It was pride, obviously. You, me, and ‘Ferre went on a whim that summer to San Francisco for my birthday.”

 

“You didn’t take Jehan?” Enjolras asks.

 

Courfeyrac smiles at him, “Me and Jehan got together last summer--after this.”

 

“Wait--did you say San Francisco?” Enjolras asks, shifting away from the picture. “I thought we--last time when we were in college--”

 

Courfeyrac bristles, his smile wide and reassuring. Courfeyrac looks different than Enjolras remembers him being. He seems slightly taller and his curls have gotten a touch lighter perhaps due to more time out in the sun. One thing that couldn’t change about Courfeyrac though was his blinding smile, and for that Enjolras’s is grateful. “Enj,  _ please.  _ You’ve forgotten a lot of shit, but you still know who you are, right? Sure, we got ‘banned for life’ from participating in Pride parades in San Francisco during college for being ‘too extreme during protests’, but it only took a few strongly worded letters and more than a few threats of suing the city on your part before they finally let us participate again."

 

“Ah.” 

 

Enjolras can’t think of anything else to say. What Courfeyrac is saying makes sense and he has no doubt that is  _ exactly  _ what he would--did--do during a situation such as this. The thought still baffles him though.

 

“Let me help you with your bags.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t argue, just let’s Courfeyrac show him to him and Jehan’s spare room. Once his grand total of three small suitcases are stacked into Courfeyrac’s small guest bedroom with nothing but a small desk and a single sized bed occupying the space, he begins to relax a little more. The place isn’t any more familiar, but because it’s now a place, if for only a short amount of time, that he can call  _ his.  _ He couldn’t go back to ‘his’ apartment, mainly because the doctor that finally discharged him after proclaiming that he has lost nearly three years worth of memory said it ‘wasn’t the smartest idea’. Also, and almost strangely, Enjolras doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t know if he can stand it. The world has shifted right before him and he doesn’t want to be alone when the realization of that hits him like a pile of bricks.

 

“Thank you, Courf.” Enjolras says, and watches as a look of surprise runs across Courfeyrac’s features before quickly disappearing. Enjolras gives him an uncertain look. “What?”

 

Courfeyrac only laughs, shaking his head slightly, “Nothing just. Um, no one’s called me that in at least a year--if not longer.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras says. “The nickname wore off then?”

 

“I guess so. Bring it back again, it has a nice ring to it.” Courfeyrac says, smiling at him. “Jehan should be home soon. He makes the most wicked casserole you’ve ever eaten-- _ your  _ words not mine. We’ll eat in twenty.”

 

Enjolras smiles, “I’ll take my word for it then.”

  
  
  
  


~~~

  
  


Enjolras stares at his key chain in utter and complete confusion. He bites his lip in frustration as he turns over silver key after gold key after--

 

“Trouble?” Combeferre asks, setting down his coffee cup. His eyebrows draw together, but other than that his demeanor doesn’t change.

 

Enjolras sits back into the coffee house's leather green seats, feeling no sense of warmth or familiarity that Combeferre had assured him he would feel when he offered to take him out of Courfeyrac’s spare room for the first time in days. Enjolras sets down the keys, “Not particularly. I just don’t recognize at least ten of those sets of keys.”

 

“One acquires a lot of new keys in  two years and six and half months .” Combeferre says simply, setting down his newspaper and instead shifting his phone out of his pocket. “I could call a few of your colleagues, see if they--”

 

“Not necessary. Thank you, Combeferre. I already feel like I’m imposing enough on the people in my life as it is.” Enjolras says. His fingers brush the edge of his coffee. The desire for warmth is in his hands, but the desire to actually drink the contents within it are lacking.

 

“You are not imposing, Enjolras.” Combeferre says, his voice leveled and calm as always. “You are adjusting--recovering from an accident and need time to get used to your new surroundings. Perhaps not even get used to what is going on around you, and instead piece together what your mind has clouded out. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, and it will definitely take time, but--”

 

“But it’s already been two weeks since I’ve been discharged from the hospital and I still don’t remember anything.” Enjolras says gruffly, not trying to hide the obvious annoyance in his tone. “I don’t know about anything going on at the workplace. All the stuff I remember working on for so long is completed or taken over by someone who is now ranked lower than me. Combeferre, I don’t even recognize my own apartment.  A place I’ve been living in for six months . In my mind home is that shitty apartment you and me shared for a year.”

 

“Two years.” Combeferre is quick to correct him, but not in an insensitive way, just a simply informative way that he knows Enjolras is silently, desperately asking for in order to piece his life back together. “Eponine and I got our own apartment then and you found your own.”

 

“You and Eponine.” Enjolras echoes and shakes his head. The thought of Combeferre--his best friend since they were both children--being in a serious committed relationship blew his mind more than the windshield of his now totaled car ever could. “That’s right. You told me about you two getting together in the hospital, I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to write that down when I get back to Courfeyrac’s.”

 

“Jehan and Courfeyrac’s.” Combeferre is, once again, quick to correct him.

 

Enjolras groans, finally saying ‘fuck you’ to the voices of warning in his head and taking a large swig of of the bitter sweet coffee. “Yes, I know.”

 

“I know you do. Somewhere.” Combeferre says, his hand folding against the table and a small smile tugging at his lips. Thankfully, unlike Courfeyrac and most of the others, Combeferre is by far the least in Enjolras’ mind to have changed. He is still working his oversized work shirts and sweaters while matching them with his trademark thick-rimmed glasses. Him and  Eponine’s relationship is new and one Enjolras couldn’t have seen coming--not from a mile away let alone three feet--but he is still overjoyed to find out that his friend has finally settled down with someone. 

 

Combeferre nods at him before taking another swig of his coffee, “Just give it time, Enjolras. It’ll all come back eventually.”

 

Enjolras nods. Warmth spreads through his chest at Combeferre’s words. Combeferre, for as long as Enjolras has known him, has almost never been wrong. Not in situations like these anyway.

 

Settling back into his chair, Enjolras forces himself to get comfortable, “Tell me about her.”

 

Combeferre’s grin, if possible, grows even wider.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The first ‘flashback’, as Enjolras’ now calls them, comes  three and half weeks after he is discharged from the hospital. 

 

He is, strangely enough, at Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta’s apartment watching a movie with the three, plus Bahorel who was able to get off work early to join them. He spends most of his time there, not because he is closer to the three who own the rather small, but nice, apartment complex, but because out of all of his friends their apartment is the only one who stayed the same over the past almost two and a half year (two and a half years that he has completely and utterly lost). His friends tell Enjolras countless stories, ideas, and events all day long to try and jog Enjolras’ mind to remember  _ something.  _ But, in the end, after multiple tries, mostly people tell Enjolras things because if they didn’t he would never know.

 

He is snuggled up on an armchair by himself. Bahorel is in the kitchen mixing together drinks while attempting to cook at least three bags of popcorn at once that are undoubtedly going to be layered in a thick slab of butter and salt. Bossuet is crouched in front of the TV, trying desperately to find a way to skip through the beginning commercials but is failing epically. Musichetta is snickering at his antics from the couch, thoroughly amused but in a good natured way. Joly, on the other hand, is pressed up firmly against Musichetta and is trying his best to direct Bossuet through the process of getting to the title screen while avoiding the possibility of having to get up and help him.

 

It isn’t until the third commercial plays and begins introducing the new special edition of the classic movie Jaws that Enjolras goes numb. When the narrator introduces the main character--police  _ chief _ Martin Brody--on the screen along with a slur of others, Enjolras’ mind goes off. His body goes slack and his eyes go slightly cross-eyed as a new image, a different time, flashes before his eyes.

 

_ He finds himself at the head of a table, his friends all gathered around snickering and poking at each other. He’s at the Musain. His vision is focused on a certain individual though, all of his friends seem to blur together. He still is able to recognize Courfeyrac’s polka dot shirt and Bossuet’s ‘not-so-lucky- shot glass sitting at the very edge of the table just waiting to fall, but everything just seems to melt into nothing but background noise. Instead, he has focused on someone with curls darker and more wild than Courfeyrac’s that have been hastily shoved up into a navy blue beanie. His eyes remind Enjolras of the sea on a stormy day, dark and mysterious and piercing. The stranger, Enjolras is sure he doesn’t recognize the man whatsoever, has his brown boots up on the table in a degrading manner, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side as he looks Enjolras over, seemingly unimpressed. A smirk, small and completely noticeable, is prominent on his features as he mutters from the other end of the table,  _

 

_ “What’s the matter, chief? Can’t take the heat?” _

  
  
  
  


“ _ Enjolras _ .”

 

He is being shaken, and judging by the strength and harshness of the thrashes he can only assume it to be none other than Bahorel. He immediately snaps out of his dazed state and into the real world where four of his friends are surrounding him, looks of worry on each of their faces. Enjolras seizes up against the chair, swallowing hard, “What?”

 

Bahorel releases his strong grip on his shoulders, instead opting to put a reassuring hand down his arm while Joly nervously hovers behind him, “Are you alright, man? You blacked out for a second there on us.”

 

Enjolras rubs his eyes, shaking his head a little, “I just--I remembered something.”

 

“What was it?” Bossuet asks to eagerly, earning him a small smack on the arm from Musichetta. Bossuet throws an apologetic look both of their ways, his hand trailing nervously down his own arm.

 

“I don’t know.” Enjolras says truthfully. “I was in the Musain but...I didn’t recognize anyone. Not really. I mean, you guys were there, I think, but,””

 

He trails off and luckily none of them push Enjolras any further, careful to remember that his mind is fragile and shouldn’t be pushed to limits he isn’t comfortable with. Enjolras is content with not sharing and after Joly looks him over for any signs of obvious trauma and asks him a few questions they are back into movie night mode. 

 

No one asks Enjolras anymore questions that night. Although he knows he must he eerily quiet and he would have to be an idiot to not notice the fleeting looks his friends are giving him, but he finds that he can’t be persuaded by their opinions. Even if he wanted to share, he’s not really sure what he would tell them.

 

~~~

  
  


The next ‘flashback’ is so vivid that Enjolras feels like he is  _ there. _

 

He is at the library with Joly who is desperately trying to get him caught up on all of the courses he has forgotten about when it suddenly happens. No catalysts. No triggers. Just appears before Enjolras's eyes like an unknown force of nature. 

 

_ “Just remember,” The man says, his ink black curls sticking up in certain places while other parts stay plastered to the sides of his head. “always end on the right foot.” _

 

_ Enjolras’ attention drifts only slightly from the man in baggy grey sweats and a tight black shirt and instead lands on a girl who couldn’t be any older than fourteen. She is pouting, her expression on full display to everyone in the studio through the large glass mirrors covering an entire wall. “I thought you said left.” _

 

_ “I did.” The man explains to her. Now he is pouting too.  _

 

_ “So, not the right foot.” The girl snaps back, her eyes flaring with obvious annoyance. _

 

 _“Yes Azelma, the right foot!” The man says, exasperated. There is a fondness in his voice though. One Enjolras, as well as the girl, can easily detect because a smile lights up the girl’s face as she just rolls her eyes. The man continues, waggling his finger at the girl before tapping his large, black sneaker against the wooden floors, creating a steady beat, “_ The _right foot is the left foot,_ _duh. Everyone knows that. Do I gotta spell it out for you?”_

 

_ Enjolras must’ve said something at this point in the background, perhaps he even laughed at the exchange, although in his mind his words are nothing but a scrambled up blur. The man still turns around though, a grin pulling slowly across his face at just seeing him as he slightly turns away from the girl at his side. The look makes warmth sparkle within Enjolras' chest. The man’s teeth shine against the dimmed lights of the dance studio and a sheen of sweat is obvious across his toned body.  _

 

 _He looks back at Enjolras with a smirk before scoffing at him and rolling his eyes, “What Razzy?_ _You think you can teach better?”_

  
  


~~~

  
  


“Combeferre, do you know any dancers. Instructors more specifically.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, but by the way he goes tense for a beat too long Enjolras already knows the answer. Combeferre must realize this because after flipping to the next page of the morning newspaper, he says simply, “I do. A couple in fact.”

 

“Do I?” Enjolras asks when Combeferre doesn’t elaborate on the obvious.

 

“You do.” Combeferre answers and finally sets down the paper. He leans across the unsturdy table, something Courfeyrac and Jehan really need to get fixed or at least checked out, before slightly shrugging his way. “Eponine is a dancer. She owns her own studio downtown and has quite a few instructors to help her out with her students. Mostly children.”

 

“Azelma.” Enjolras nods. “She takes lessons.”

 

“She does. She’s Eponine’s little sister.” Combeferre says, a hint of a smile on the end of his lips. “Gavroche is into breakdancing and hip hop as well. Although Azelma is much more serious about her dancing. Jehan even stops down there during weekends because, despite Courfeyrac insisting that he should take professional tap dancing lessons, he prefers to watch from the sidelines.”

 

“As do I.” Enjolras says, but there is a hint of a question to his tone. He taps his fingers against the wooden table rapidly, obviously uncomfortable talking this way. He is used to being sure of himself, his his views, his friends, his lifestyle,  _ everything _ . Having to have constant reassurance that what he says makes sense is utterly exhausting and degrading. "Watch on the sidelines, I mean.”

 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at him for the first time during their conversation, signaling that he isn’t quite sure how to answer his question. Despite his confusion, Combeferre, being Combeferre, refuses to break eye contact and instead shrugs, “I don’t recall seeing you down there much over the past few months, but I wouldn’t say it’s impossible.”

 

Enjolras just nods before lifting a mug of coffee Courfeyrac had made for him earlier that morning before he had rushed out the door claiming to be late for his shift, but not before thrusting the newspaper into Combeferre’s hand and demanding that he keep it far,  _ far  _ away from Enjolras.

 

Enjolras had only been slightly offended, but Courfeyrac still looked at him and laughed, “Trust me. You’re probably still mad about current events two and a half years ago, the last thing you need if to get worked up over the shit you don’t even remember living through. Your head will explode.”

 

After a short while of idly chatting, Combeferre finishes his coffee and bids Enjolras farewell, but not before taking the newspaper with him with a small smile on his lips. 

 

Enjolras is once again left alone with his thoughts.

  
  


~~~

 

Feuilly comes back from Sicily a couple days later after being there for almost  five months for his job (seven weeks after Enjolras has been discharged) and doesn’t hesitate to envelope Enjolras in a bone crushing hug. Enjolras hugs him back, but when he pulls back and sees Feuilly’s face still covered in an abundance of freckles and his ginger hair daring to cover his eyes, a memory resurfaces.

 

It is a short memory. One of him, Feuilly, Bossuet, and the stranger all stuffed into a booth at an unfamiliar restaurant.

 

_ “Let’s count how many freckles Feuilly-poo’s got on his face, shall we?” The stranger says, poking Feuilly’s face from his spot next to him on the booth while Feuilly swats him away, his eyes focused on the phone in his hand. _

 

_ Bossuet chuckles from next to Enjolras, a few patches of hair still lie upon his head that Enjolras remembers  _ (not the completely bald head he is currently sporting now).  _ Enjolras catches a glimpse out the window. The sun is beating down through the glass and Enjolras can almost feel the rays of sunshine warming him up. _

 

_ When Enjolras focuses his attention back on the stranger and Feuilly across from him, the stranger is no longer looking or poking Feuilly, his attention is centered completely on Enjolras like he’d been looking at him nearly the whole time. His head is cocked to the side in a way that Enjolras can almost call familiar as he says, “What? Are you worried that the sun is outshining you today, Apollo?” _

Enjolras is able to feign recalling a memory with Feuilly in it easily when his friends circle around him in worry when the memory is done. He isn’t exactly lying. 

  
  


~~~

As the weeks shift into two months  Enjolras’ mind slowly, but surely, begins to put itself back together. 

 

He no longer needs to use google map whenever he wants to go out to eat or visit one of his friend’s house. His feet will either just lead him there or he’ll suddenly remember to ‘take a turn on 168th street’. He finds himself not having flashes of random bits of memory suddenly appear in his mind (when he does though they contain the mysterious black haired man nearly eight five percent of the time), but instead just surprises himself by suddenly recalling the information out of nothing. 

 

It is mostly small things though. He can’t remember going down to Baltimore to comfort Bossuet when his grandmother had passed away. He can’t remember anything from going to the actual funeral or to even wearing the black suit and tie still hanging up in his closet at Jehan and Courfeyrac’s, but he does remember her death. February 2nd. It is a day of mourning for Bossuet and Enjolras already seemed to know this before anyone even mentioned his grandmother’s passing to him.

 

So when Enjolras finds himself standing in front of a large, slightly run down building downtown late on a  Thursday evening , he can’t honestly say he is surprised. The building doesn’t trigger a memory or even hint at a flare of recognition, yet Enjolras knows that this is definitely the place where he planned to stop. A feeling deep in his gut tells him so. He debates for a couple of seconds on whether or not to call Combeferre and ask him about the building, but decides that walking in for a minute or two won’t do him any harm. He isn’t exactly in a hurry.

 

He enters the building and is immediately greeted with a warm burst of air, a welcoming difference from the rapid, blistering cold winds outside. He looks around the place a little, taking in a few of the polished floorboards and high, stained window frames, but his gaze eventually lands on the girl who looks to be working the front desk.

 

Her hair is dark and pulled up into a high ponytail on top of her head. She is wearing a loose tank top, the straps shamelessly falling down her bare shoulders along with a pair of baggy, rolled up harem pants. Her forehead is creased in irritation as she stares down at the papers before her all while gnawing on the end of a red ballpoint pen.

 

She doesn’t realize Enjolras’ presence until he is standing before her. When their eyes meet Enjolras feels a shiver run down his spine. His lips part instinctively, “You’re Eponine.”

 

He states it like a fact, and Eponine’s jaw drops when she nods, “Yeah, that’s me. Um,” She stands up, dropping the pen on the desk and reaching over the desk between them, hand outstretched, “Combeferre warned me that you probably wouldn’t remember me. So, um, let’s meet again?”

 

Enjolras immediately takes a liking to her. He doesn’t know whether or not it was Combeferre’s idea, but the constant stream of people flocking his way, acting like they have known each other for years (which they most likely have but still), is exhausting even to Enjolras. Eponine, while he has no doubt that they’ve known each other for  _ at least  _ more than a year is the first person to take into consideration that he doesn’t remember her at all. 

 

Enjolras shakes her hand, and nods. “Thank you. 

When they separate Eponine is left staring up at Enjolras like he might be a possible poacher ready to attack at any given moment. He tries not to take it personally, knowing somewhere deep within himself that her attitude towards him is most likely how she treats everyone. She shifts on her heels, her eyes narrowing on him a little, “So, what can I help you with? You’re not lost are you?”

 

“No,” Enjolras says. “Well, I mean, I’m not lost. I don’t think so anyway. Do I come here often?”

 

Eponine’s face falls for a little bit, “Um, this is my dance studio.” She says it like that should answer all of Enjolras’ questions. She sighs when he just gives her a confused look, “So, um, you haven’t shown up here in awhile, no.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Eponine actually laughs, shaking her head a bit, “You tell me.” She pauses, coming out from behind the desk and checking her wrist watch. Her eyes widen in realization before looking back up at Enjolras, “I get it. You’re feet just carried you here I’m guessing?”

 

“Yes, how did you--”

 

“He’s not here.” Eponine says, cutting him off. Enjolras eyes widen slightly, but Eponine keeps talking, “He doesn’t work the seven to nine class anymore. He switched to Tuesdays because of issues with his work schedule. If you wanna see him dance, you’ll have to come then. But--ask someone about it first, okay? Before you come here just…  _ ask. _ ”

 

“Who?”

 

“Anyone. Literally ask anyone about coming here to watch R dance, okay?” Eponine answers, not the question Enjolras was asking, but he gets an answer nonetheless.

 

Enjolras leaves the dance studio confused. Confusion is a thing he has strangely gotten used to over the months left in the dark though.

 

~~~

 

It isn't until a week and half after Feuilly’s return that his official ‘welcome home’ party takes place. (Feuilly insisted on waiting until Cosette and Marius got back from their extended vacation to Paris to visit Cosette’s father before having it. Better to have one big welcome back party than two back to back.)

 

Although Enjolras really can’t remember Feuilly being gone for too terribly long, he tries to make the most of it when they all meet at the Musain for drinks. 

 

“It was horrible, Enjolras.” Bahorel exclaims dramatically while Feuilly, whose neck is hooked underneath Bahorel’s straining arm rolls his eyes while smiling fondly up at him. Bahorel presses on from across the table, looking Enjolras dead in the eye, “Imagine being in a dark hole away from civilization, being slowly smothered and strangled for weeks on end.  Five months to be exact! It was torture. I was having withdrawal symptoms.”

 

Feuilly manages to break free from Bahorel’s grasp, but before he can say anything he is cut off by Courfeyrac shouting from the other end of the Musain.

 

“Grantaire! You sleazy bastard, you’re late.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t pay close enough attention until the man in question begins to  _ talk.  _ Enjolras whole body goes stiff and he is almost certain that another uncanny memory will flash before his eyes, but surprisingly he stays stationary in the real world.

 

Enjolras whips his head around, setting down the half empty beer bottle Bahorel had forced into his hand and standing up. His eyes go wide when he takes in the man near the entrance of the Musain, a fond smile on his face that seems to be dimmer than what he remembers in his flashbacks. He is shrugging off a hefty winter coat that bumps against the bun tied up near back of his head, a feature Enjolras fails to recall in any of his memories. He has stubble littering his jaw and his eyes are more dark around the edges than he remembers, a sign that perhaps he isn’t getting as much sleep as he probably should.

 

The man laughs, his laugh almost identical to the one echoing in Enjolras’ memory for weeks on end, “Sorry man, you know me. I’m in high demand nowadays.”

 

Enjolras is already starting off towards him before he can stop himself, ignoring Bahorel and possibly Feuilly’s protests behind him as he goes. Vaguely, he hears Courfeyrac talking to the man about some convention he has been away at, but whatever they are talking about is at the bottom of his list of concerns. He knocks past chairs and people before he finds himself less than five feet away from the man.

 

“Now,” The man starts, smile still prominent on his shadowed face, “Where is my man Fe--”

 

The man breaks off when he sees Enjolras standing in front of him, his chest undoubtedly puffing and his muscles as stiff as stone. The smile drops off his face and his eyes, insanely blue and bright, go wide with surprise before quickly returning to their normal state. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet which are covered in the same brown boots Enjolras’ remembers. He clears his throat, “Um…”

 

“You.” Enjolras says without thinking better of it. He barely holds himself back from pointing an accusing finger at him. He forces his eyes to scan over the slightly shorter man one more time, but he knows there is no mistaking it.  _ It’s him.  _ “I know you.”

 

The man tilts his head, not in the way he does when he is amused, but in a way to convey confusion, “Yeah, you do. How noble of you to remember me, chief. I’m honored.”

 

_ Chief.  _ Enjolras shakes at the familiarity that the name holds.

 

“No--No I mean,” Enjolras takes a step forward, unconsciously drawing the attention of the rest of the amis around him, halting their conversations. “I  _ really  _ know you. Who...Who are you?”

 

The man gulps, suddenly all of the sarcasm he once showed proudly fades away, “I-I yeah, I heard about your incident a few months back man but...Combeferre told me...I mean, you really don’t know who I am?”

 

“I don’t.” Enjolras says, because it is the truth, but he is quick to add. “But I did know you. I did, and I will.”

 

The man laughs, but it’s bitter and sounds foul even to Enjolras. “Trust me. Be glad you forgot. I know I’d forget me if I had the chance.” He pauses and looks away awkwardly when Enjolras just stares, “Um, I’m--I’m Grantaire...R.” The man, Grantaire, says after a long, drawn out pause. He looks tired, even more tired than when he first walked in, and his eyes won’t meet Enjolras’. They seem to be everywhere but on him, possibly throwing ‘S.O.S’ glances at the others around him, but they stay silent on the sidelines.

 

“Were we…” Enjolras trails off, not really sure how to ask the question. He feels all the stares of the amis on him, waiting for him to continue. He takes a deep breath, “Good friends? Close? I just...I--”

 

“Not really...I mean, at one point maybe, but…” Grantaire is quick to cut him off with a tone that makes even Enjolras’ heart clench. “Don’t worry yourself about it, E. It’s ancient history. We’re good.  _ You’re  _ good. It’s fine.”

 

“You’re an artist.” Enjorlas says, he isn’t really sure why. It just pops out. He isn’t even one hundred percent sure that he knew that until Grantaire was standing in front of him in the flesh instead of clouding his memories with confusing events.

 

Grantaire straightens up at that, the hands in his pockets digging deeper and pulling his jacket tight across his shoulders. He let out a sigh, “Yeah. I am.”

 

“You’re also a dancer. Tap dancing and--and hip hop or whatever classical type of dance there is. You teach--you teach with Eponine, at Eponine’s studio.” Enjolras is no longer thinking. Words spill out of his mouth and he is unable to look away from Grantaire’s widened eyes as he continues. “You worked at a bar for a while, but that didn’t end well. I can’t remember why. You were really upset about it. You made a joke about bartenders but I can’t remember how it goes. You love Halloween. Everything about it you go crazy for and you like it because I hate it. Yeah. Everything to the pumpkin spiced lattes to the dressing up in ridiculous outfits. We went together once...as a pair or--or you made me dress up as something stupid--I think it was Captain America--and--and I let you.…. You--you hate your neighbor. He is noisy and--and is always having sex and you can always hear him through the thin walls. I always gave you shit about how many health violations your apartment has...you can never get any commissions done there so you come over to my apartment to get them done. You usually end up getting paint everywhere but--” Enjolras cuts off, a memory of an intoxicated Grantaire spilling his paints on Enjolras’ floor while reaching past his canvas to grab a bottle off the coffee table. Enjolras snaps back to reality, his eyes wandering towards the bar wearily before he says in a hushed tone, “You drink. A lot. Or--Or you did, at one point in time. I just, you were the worst at criticizing me when you were drunk you…..You criticized me a lot. Sometimes about little things…” The image of Grantaire lazily running his hands through Enjolras’ hair, his face close, a lazy smile on his lips; his blue eyes were hazy with intoxication and they all suddenly appear in Enjolras’ mind, “Like my hair. You hated it when I cut it.” Enjolras suddenly finds himself with an answer to why in the  _ world  _ he would ever let his hair grow as long as it is now. “You hate my ideas and--and we fought. I think we may have punched each other once...but that was awhile ago. I...I couldn’t believe what I had done--” Enjolras’ palms are sweaty and he feels like he is about to pass out, and he knows he is being too loud, but words are still rushing out of him. Each wave hitting him like bullet. “You call me nicknames. I hate them, but I let you do it anyway. You--You love red peppers. You ate an entire bag of red peppers once and I--ha, I think you got sick. You,” Enjolras’ eyes trail down. He can’t help it. His gaze lands right on Grantaire’s belt. He doesn’t realize he is whispering until he begins to talk, “You have a birthmark on the inside of your right thigh. It’s shaped like a balloon and you think it’s the coolest thing ever. And--”

 

_ “Enjolras.” _

 

Combeferre’s voice is the voice of reason. The voice that pulls Enjolras back into reality but this time he had been speaking his thoughts out loud, not bottling them up and storing them away in his mind. He takes a step back, his balance immediately going unsteady and Bahorel is quick to steady him with two strong hands on his shoulders.

 

“ _ Shit.”  _ He breathes out, suddenly feeling very light-headed. Bahorel is quick to set him down in a chair, his hands pressed against his shoulders like he is afraid Enjolras might try and stand up. He might’ve, if he thought he had the ability to do so anymore.

 

When his gaze travels up he sees that Grantaire is hustling towards the door with an unreadable expression on his face. Combeferre, of all people, tails him immediately, catching his arm before whispering a few hushed words to him and following him outside.

 

Enjolras, for the first time since middle school, begins to truly  _ panic. _

  
  


_ Yes, that’s right. He’s had problems with panic attacks since he was a child...he hadn’t forgotten that… _

 

He doesn’t know when he started shaking, but he can’t seem to stop now that is has begun. Waves of crushing emotions flood over him, suffocating him in a room that should feel like a haven to his shattered mind. He is sweating, he can already feel his breaths growing shakier as the--seconds? Minutes? Who can say?--slowly crawl by. 

 

Somehow Courfeyrac ends up kneeling in front of him, his curls clouding his understanding face and two gentle palms suddenly lay on Enjolras’s flushed cheeks. It should be comforting, it was how him and Combeferre would calm Enjolras during their childhoods, but now it only felt restricting.

 

“ _ Courfeyrac _ ,” Enjolras voices cracks, he continues, “who is that man? Who is he? The--I don’t know...I just. What does he--I know...I-I see him  _ all the time--” _

 

“Enough Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, his voice light and carefree, although even Enjolras could hear the faint worry in his tone. Courfeyrac’s eyes locked with his, serious and calming, “You need to calm down. Deep breathes.”

 

“I--I  _ fucking--I know him--! Courf--" _

 

“I know.” Courfeyrac lulls, running his hand through Enjolras’ hair in a way only Courfeyrac could. Enjolras feels the tightness in his chest begin to release, allowing him to breathe. “You are fine. Everything is fine. You’re just confused, overwhelmed, you’re  _ fine.” _

 

Enjolras sucks in a deep breath and when Courfeyrac instructs him to release it it comes out shaky, like a choked sob with no tears. Thank God there were no tears. Tears only made Enjolras’ panic attacks worse, made them last  _ longer.  _

 

Enjolras says after several intakes of breath, “I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

Combeferre and Grantaire never came back that night, and after a few restless minutes Jehan offered to take Enjolras back to his and Courfeyrac’s place. Enjolras gave the best apology he was able to, mostly to Feuilly who was still in the spot Enjolras had last seen him in, a sad smile on his face. 

Jehan didn’t say much on the way home which Enjolras found himself eternally grateful for. Enjolras didn’t know Jehan too well, but it was clear to even Enjolras that Jehan must know him a lot more than Enjolras could remember. He knew what to say when it needed to be said and he knew when it was best to keep quiet and be nothing more than a helping hand. Enjolras wished he had Jehan’s knack for knowing when to use one or the other.

 

~~~

 

Saying Enjolras felt overwhelmed the week after Feuilly’s party would be an understatement on extreme proportions.

 

Memories. The key to achieving what Enjolras had lost had been almost as good as the memories themselves.  _ It was him.  _ He, Grantaire, was the mysterious catalyst that started a chain of events that kept Enjolras grounded for most of the week, normally with a worried Combeferre, Jehan, or Joly by his side.

 

It started out small. Small, little things Enjolras would remember or be reminded of through a flashback. A flash of a phone number of a client. Combeferre reminding him months ago that Tuesday was the day he was supposed to bring out the garbage to the curb. What one of the many unknown keys on his chain would open. Small things.

 

Then, the memories grew longer and stronger. Each memory held a meaning to it, a story to help guide Enjolras’s broken mind back to a somewhat stable state. 

 

He would watch a ten minute conversation between Musichetta and Bossuet about what the right present for Joly would be for his birthday, a conversation that would’ve happened months ago. He even remembers himself pitching in and offering to tag along whenever the duo decided to hit the shops to search for the perfect gift.

 

He remembers in one night, in a dream of sorts, his whole work plan for the past year at Valjean’s company. It is a plan he had been looking over for weeks after his accident, trying desperately to remember it by skimming through his old notes but nothing had jogged a single thread of recognition until now.

 

He remembers Combeferre introducing him to Eponine. The memory resurfaced when Enjolras had shown up to Combeferre’s apartment early one morning to ask about an assignment only to have Eponine answer the door, allowing a whole new set of memories to hit him from all angles. He remembered Combeferre’s’ face and how it lit up when he brought Eponine up to his side during a particularly nasty protest that had taken a turn for the worst when some bigoted idiot thought it was a good idea to insult Feuilly in front of Bahorel who, unsurprisingly, didn’t hesitate to break the guy’s nose with a single snap of his fist. Eponine, according to Combeferre, after the violence had smoldered down of course, helped guide defenceless people out of the violent streets.

 

He hadn’t realized this at the time, but once the memory resurfaced in his brain the event was so obvious he couldn’t believe it had slipped past him at the time. That was the moment Combeferre fell in love with Eponine.

 

He remembered the moment he met  _ him  _ too. The memory hit him out of nowhere and left him unable to be on his feet for hours.

 

_ The memory started out with his laugh. _

 

_ Enjolras’ eyes shot up from where they had been originally focused down on the multiple piles of notes, graphs, and surveys spread around him when the unfamiliar pitch pierced his eardrum. His eyes found the source of the noise all too easily and his eyes narrowed automatically. The man was unfamiliar, someone that Enjolras wouldn’t look twice at if he passed him on the street and it was no wonder he didn’t notice him until a good halfway through the meeting. _

 

_ The man had short, scruffy black hair that clouded around his ears and hung dangerously close to his eyes, almost blocking them. His coat was tattered and appeared to have multiple stains of color gathered around the cuffs. His chin was sprinkled with hair, enough that Enjolras found it more displeasing than attractive, and his lips were twitched upwards in a way that Enjolras found demeaning. He looked smug, but not in the way Bahorel or Courfeyrac looked when they had undoubtedly done something better than the other, but in a way that made Enjolras think he had already won. That one laugh at his ideals was enough to bring Enjolras down. How pathetic. _

 

_ His laugh died away, although the evidence of it was still there on his quirked lips, when Enjolras’ gaze landed on him. He looked too amused for Enjolras to simply let his curiosity slide by, “Is something funny to you?” _

 

_ His voice was harsh, he intended it to be, but it didn’t phase the man who simply shrugged, “Why of course, but that doesn’t mean you should stop. You were on a role. I almost felt moved by your speech. Go on, dazzle me some more.” _

 

_ A sound of muffled laughter could be heard behind him (undoubtedly Courfeyrac’s doing), but Enjolras was too focused on the man at the far end of the table, a tall bottle of something foul in his hand, to dare tear his eyes away from him for one minute. His hand gripped the edge of the table tightly as he spoke, “If you have something to say share it now. Don’t waste my time.” _

 

_ The man eyebrow shot up in surprise, his smile remained, “You can’t be serious. There’s no way.” _

 

_ It was the wrong thing to say to him, and judging by the hand suddenly on Enjolras’ arm Combeferre knew this. Combeferre’s voice was low, almost a whisper, “Enjolras, ple--” _

 

_ Enjolras shook his hand away roughly, his fierce eyes never leaving the man’s, “I’m always serious, nothing here is funny to me and shouldn’t be to you either.” _

 

_ “Oh my gosh,” The man’s voice comes out sounding exasperated. Enjolras notices Joly sending the man a fleeting look next to him, but the man waves him off with a simple flick of his hand. He is staring at Enjolras again, his eyes wide with amusement, “You really believe in all this shit you’ve been spewing for the last couple of weeks. Don’t you? How adorable, and strangely admirable, but also very sad, I’m afraid.” _

 

_ Last couple of weeks? How long has this man been coming here? _

 

_ Marius suddenly laughs nervously next to the man, his eyes barely being able to meet Enjolras’s, “Enjolras, you gotta excuse R here. He’s really had too much to drink-- _

 

_ “Marius,” Enjolras bit out roughly, immediately shushing the now flushed man. He didn’t have to say anymore and Marius shut up without another sound. _

 

_ Enjolras, never one to back down from a challenge, doesn’t shrivel underneath the man’s gaze when his attention zones back on him, “It is anything but sad to believe that things, beliefs, and people that are so corrupt can change. And yes, I do believe.” _

 

_ “Uh-huh, and tell me Apollo, how do you propose all of these ideals you talk about are to be achieved? Like now for example, cutting government spending so that money will be put to better use. Now, doesn’t that sound charming, especially when your pretty voice says it. What is this ‘better use’ you speak of? More funding for your justice club?” _

 

_ “What kind of question is that?” Enjolras snapped, ignoring the comment about his ‘justice club’. He vaguely watched Jehan wince out of the corner of his eyes. “Are you really so obtuse that you can’t think of one thing that money--money we are wasting promoting candidates who don’t keep their promise, politicians with horrible morals--can be used for to make the world a better place?” _

 

_ “Oh please,” The man drawled, taking a long swig from his bottle before continuing, “We might as well waste it on the rich and powerful. They’re the only ones who have a say in how this world runs. Come on blondie, you know exactly where it all goes back to--back to all the white, fat, bigoted, men who run this damn c--” _

 

_ “And that is exactly what we are fighting against.” Enjolras nearly growled, his nails digging deeper and deeper into the wooden table. “We want to take government spending and redirect it to a different cause, put it to something good. Something that will make a change and open the people’s eyes to new possibilities on the fu--” _

 

_ “And how are you going to do that?” The man asked, taunting, “Tell me.” _

 

_ “I’ll show you.” Enjolras voice was low, grave and deadly. It silenced the room that already seemed too quiet even when both he and the man were arguing. Now, even the man had fallen silent. _

 

_ They stared at one another, Enjolras scowling and the man boasting a somewhat playful grin that only ignites Enjolras’ anger. He leaned back into his chair, his muscles loose and carefree, before taking another swig of his drink. He said, quietly, “I can’t wait.” _

 

~~~

 

Enjolras doesn’t bring up Grantaire again and no one tries to steer him in the direction where bringing him up would be the outcome. They still treat him like glass, like he could break at the tiniest bit of pressure that hits him when only a few short months ago they all treated him like he was made out of stone. He was their leader, fierce and vibrant, and would never back down from a challenge. Now though, he feels more like a pity project that everyone has silently agreed to work together to fix.

 

He confides in Combeferre most of the time. He relies on his best friend to tell him the truth and for the most part he does his best. But still, he treads lightly, Enjolras can tell. Even in Combeferre’s eyes he knows the truth can hurt worse than the lies the others are feeding him and takes that into account whenever Enjolras confronts him.

 

“You are getting better.” Combeferre will say. Most likely they will be alone, on a walk through a familiar park to get some fresh air. Just what the doctor’s recommended. “Everyone can see that, Enjolras.  _ You  _ must see that. You are back at work, back at social conventions, and more. Just the other day you remembered your Valjean’s address when he sent you a letter, you recognized it immediately. I don’t think even I could do that successfully.”

The air is fresh and clear, especially in the middle of the park. Although the noises around them create a little bit of chaos for the animals inhabiting the space above them in the trees, all the people and children and animals around seemed to have accepted and adapted to one another. The grass is still a crisp bronze color, but that is sure to change with spring slowly creeping towards them. Even now Enjolras finds his heavy gray coat a bit too much considering the sun beating down on them through the thing smog of clouds and would take it off in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for the stern look Combeferre would shoot him if he did so. 

 

The spring is a mystery month for him. He remembers faint things from the particular season, but nothing that really strikes a chord with him. Fall he remembers because it’s when the beginning of the semester occurs. He remembers catching up with old friends, familiar faces, and overall happy and prosperous times where him and his friends would lament on the changes that they were soon going to make happen throughout the course of the year. Summer wasn’t too hard for Enjolras to retain information from either. Brief flashes of vacations with his family and friends would course through his mind whenever an old photo would be brought to his attention. Just the other week his whole vacation with most of the amis was remembered just from one picture of Enjolras drifting out in the middle of a random lake still clad in his pajamas and completely passed out on his air mattress. Courfeyrac had shown him the picture with a dopey smile on his face, “Bet you wouldn’t care if you never remembered this, huh?”

 

Enjolras had glared at him and snatched the photo out of his hand while he laughed. He didn’t bother telling Courfeyrac that no, he didn’t want to never remember anything, even the small things. The smallest things that came back to him from time to time were the things he missed the most.

 

“Whose idea was this?” Enjolras had asked and Courfeyrac and paled a bit.

 

“Uh,” His eyes drifted down to the photo before he had nodded, “probably Bahorel.”

 

Enjolras didn’t bother to question him more, not when he knew the answer would never come.

 

Maybe it was because technically it was still the particular season now, but winter stuck the most with him.

 

He remembers Joly fretting over everyone during the winter whether they were going outside to play in the snow or just going out for a quick smoke. He remembers the hot cocoa that Cosette would whip up that usually ended with burnt marshmallows sitting on top of it and too much whip cream sprayed all over Marius’s face. He remembers Combeferre’s family and how his mother, before she her famous nose job, would always pinch his cheeks whenever he complimented her on her horrendous fruitcake. It was the small things. The smell of sugar and cinamon whenever Bossuest attempted Muischetta’s cinnamon bread recipe for her birthday which was only three days after Christmas. The smiles and laughs and gifts that made Enjolras question why he always detested Christmas just on the principle that it was a capitalist , slightly elitist, holiday. It was strange to think that losing everything, only to gain it back within such a time frame, would make him appreciate it so much more than he ever did when actually living it.

 

He appreciates the memories flooding back to him, whether they are good or bad doesn’t matter, but even he can’t hide the truth. He remembers the winter season the most because they are filled with images and flashbacks of  _ him. _

 

Grantaire would often come back during spring break after studying abroad in places that even Enjolras’s can’t remember and he doesn’t believe that has anything to do with the amnesia. He simply didn’t care at the time and decided it wasn’t worth remembering until Grantaire was standing right in front of him, smirking up at him with chapped lips and a santa hat stuffed over his curly head. Grantaire, no matter the circumstances, always loved to rub Enjolras’s hate for Christmas right back in his face with his undying love for the holiday. Enjolras thought it was to annoy him, and for the most part it was, but as his memory resurfaced, he began to see it from a different perspective. Grantaire was seeking out his attention in anyway he could and Enjolras, oblivious to his actions at the time, let Grantaire have it in the only way that seemed natural. In anger.

 

Or, at least he had for awhile--violently snapping at Grantaire’s remarks and teasing because he wasn’t really sure what else to do. It had felt right at the time, their little rivalry. The rest of the amis hated them when they bickered (especially when their fights got too emotionally--too close to the surface to just be playful batnering). But sometimes, to ease to stress their fights would cause on the group, they would try to make a little game out of their arguments.  _ How many times will Grantaire shoot down one of Enjolras’s ideas this week?  _ It was a lecherous relationship and one Enjolras, at the time, thought would stay in place forever. 

 

This is until he finally got his head out of his ass.

 

It wasn’t until Enjolras first woke up in the middle of the night, sweat coating his entire body, that he had the first memory of what Grantaire and him were when they were in their prime, in their most precious and treasured moments.

 

It was a memory that had Enjolras blushing like a schoolgirl and harder than he had been in weeks. 

 

_ The duvet was a fluffy red color that reminded Enjolras of a velvet softness that encased him in his sleep. The air in the room was thick and musky despite the cold, bitter weather thundering on and on outside the window. It had been snowing since that Christmas Eve morning, but that hadn’t stopped them all from parading around in it like a bunch of idiots until that evening. Now, they all found themselves cooped up in their separate rooms at Bahorel’s too-large to be considered just an average cabin. The mixture of intense heat from within the room and the coldness radiating off of the window near the edge of the bed made it hard to breath, but breathing wasn’t exactly Enjolras’s main priority. His deep, panting breaths were labored and he had no illusion that it wasn’t from the air suddenly shifting to the thickness that it was, but from the man beneath him, gasping and splotched red from nearly the chest up. He looked gorgeous, his eyes blown wide and gazing up at Enjolras like he was his entire world. _

 

_ Grantaire’s fingernails dug into Enjolras’s shoulder blades, imbedding them into his skin and undoubtedly leaving marks that would last until tomorrow but Enjolras didn’t care, relished in them, in fact, and welcomed them, encouraged them with every snap of his hips. His hair, dark and longer in the midst of winter, scattered over the mass of pillows beneath his head and shuffled with every exhale of breath, every moan and gasp that escaped past his swollen lips. His face was scattered with moles and blemishes that Enjolras could remember as easily as a line from his favorite book. They were what made up Grantaire, every crease and crevice and they were all on display, all for Enjolras to take in and admire with his own two eyes.  _

 

_ Enjolras could hardly feel the sweat on his body, not through the memory alone, but he remembered it like an old friend that stuck with him, coated him and Grantaire from head to toe as they moved in harmony, heads thrown back and legs spread wide, completely inviting one another in without a second thought. _

 

_ Enjolras’s elbows suddenly crashed down due to a particularly hard thrust forward, jarring both of them and moving Grantaire’s head closer to the rocking headboard. Grantaire’s arms spasmed around Enjolras’s shoulders, desperately clinging around his neck as if he would fall into some unknown abyss if he let go. Their eyes met then due to the new proximity, the dark green of Grantaire’s eyes had seemed to have spread, blown out and fucked beyond belief, as he matched Enjolras’s deep stare. Enjolras didn’t think twice before swooping in, their lips smashing together in perfect harmony. Enjolras licked his way into Grantaire’s mouth, moaning at the taste of him and relishing in the feel of Grantaire’s lips against his.  _

 

_ “So good,” Grantaire breathed out when they finally broke apart, his breath smelling like whiskey and eggnog from the gathering earlier that night, but it was the sweetest thing Enjolras could possibly smell in that moment. Grantaire didn’t break eye contact for another couple thrusts. It wasn’t until Enjolras dipped down, shoving his lips behind the sensitive skin and laying delicate kisses there, too delicate and light for their otherwise wild actions, that Grantaire’s head tilted back, a low moan escaping past his lips.  _

 

_ “Enj…”  _

 

_ “Yeah?” Enjolras asked, for no reason in particular besides he wanted to hear Grantaire’s voice, wrecked and low. His hands skittered down Grantaire’s lean torso, tracing sides he couldn’t imagine never knowing, and reaffirming themselves at the bottom of his strong thighs. Almost absentmindedly, Enjolras allowed his ring finger to dip lower and trace the all too familiar birthmark just on the inside of Grantaire’s thigh, a piece of Grantaire that Enjolras knew  _ he  _ was only allowed to see, allowed to trace with his tongue and kiss until Grantaire begged for him to move up towards his cock. All. His. _

 

_ He didn’t wait for a response, just pulled back and lifted Grantaire’s already shaken thighs before fucking him deeper, harder than the shallow thrusts he had been granting while under the duvet. Now though, the duvet slipped off both of their bodies and Grantaire’s lower half was practically off of the bed, pliant in Enjolras’s strong hold, trusting. The change in position had Grantaire crying out, no longer were his moans low and barely audible to even Enjolras’s ear, but high pitched and absolutely wrecked.  _

 

_ “Enj--!” Grantaire fisted the bed sheet beside him with a new strength, his teeth coming down hard onto his bottom lip and his eyes screwed shut. _

 

_ Enjolras just opened his mouth to tell him to look at him, to show him his beautiful eyes, but the memory suddenly and all too quickly faded away, nothing but blurry shapes and choked off sounds could be heard. Flashes of Grantaire’s splotchy face, his hard dick in Enjolras’s hand, bites and bruises along his neck could be seen before everything drained away, leaving nothing left but something similar to a far off dream for Enjolras to uselessly bat at. _

 

_ The flashback didn’t resurface until they were both fucked out and lying next to each other on the bed, Grantaire’s back curled up against Enjolras’s chest and his breaths labored and strained. Enjolras could faintly recall smelling turpentine and cinnamon drifting in the air, a mix of his and Grantaire’s scent that made him bury his nose into Grantaire’s hair, breathing deeply. He felt the vibrations rumbling through Grantaire as he hummed, satisfied, and pressed farther back into Enjolras’s embrace. Enjolras didn’t even need to be facing him to imagine the smile tugging at him lips, just held him closer. _

 

_ “Okay?” Enjolras asked, his voice quiet against the back of Grantaire’s neck. _

 

_ “Sore,” Grantaire admitted, a smile on his lips. He scooted back even further until he was practically sitting on Enjolras’s lap before releasing a contented sigh, “A good sore. Don’t worry, your godly strength hasn’t broken me yet, Apollo.” _

 

_ Enjolras smiled, “Good.” The following words left Enjolras’s mouth easily in a way he never thought they could. The words were automatic and fit beautifully, “I love you.” _

 

_ Grantaire let out a huff that was undoubtedly a weak attempt at laughter, “You love my ass.” _

 

_ Enjolras shifted then. He rose above Grantaire, but still stayed as close as possible, until he was leaning over the other man, his hair tickling the end of Grantaire’s round nose. Grantaire stared up at him with wide eyes, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red that Enjolras knew wasn’t caused by their earlier activities. He looked at Grantaire, admired him from above, the soft planes of his cheeks, the creases in his forehead, the dimples on both of his cheeks that appeared even at the smallest of smiles. He adored them all, had looked past them for so long and now could never imagine not recognizing them instantly. _

 

_ “I love you.” Enjolras said again, quietly but firm. His voice was serious, but Grantaire still smiled up at him, beamed really. _

 

_ “You’re unreal.” Grantaire whispered. _

 

_ “Perhaps.”  _

 

_ “I,” Grantaire said, his eyes shining against the moonlight hitting them from outside. “I love you too, idiot.” _

 

_ Enjolras grinned and the memory abruptly cut off just as Enjolras watched himself duck in close to lay a deep kiss upon Grantaire’s lips. _

  
  
  


“I don’t want to be treated like glass.” Enjolras says. Combeferre looks up at him suddenly, surprised that he spoke when he had been silent for at least ten minutes, if not more. Enjolras doesn’t meet his eyes as they keep walking, “I want thing to go back to the way they were.”

 

Combeferre smiles at him, soft and real, “They will, my friend. In time.”

 

Enjolras wishes he could believe him.

 

~~~

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
